Chapter Text
At birth, Jos cast a disdainful glance over the wriggling infant. Wings. White wings. Slightly too large white wings. What a freak of a child. This thing was going to be his legacy? Really? Well, he can always be replaced if he can't be beaten into shape. He carelessly handed the infant back to Sophie, not even caring to ask how his wife was doing after the birth.
"Keep him away from me until he's old enough to be useful," he snapped in Dutch, leaving the room without so much as a glance backwards. Sophie watched him go, a resigned look on her face as if she had expected nothing more, but still let her hope grow.
At the age of four, Max started carting. It seemed that the moment Jos left racing, his entire focus was turned to Max. Little two-year-old Victoria was ignored, as was his wife Sophie, everything was fully on Max. And the child knew that. He was his father's legacy project, and he needed to succeed.
In 2005 he competed in a Mini Junior VAS Championship. He won. Not that there was any other option. Jos had dragged him to the side before the race.
“Luister naar mij, jongen” [Listen to me, boy], he hissed, face pushed close to the nervous eight year old, horns butting into the boy's helmet, “Je moeder zei dat je moest genieten, maar ik zeg dat je moet winnen.” [Your mother said to enjoy yourself, but I say you have to win.].
And that was that. There was now no option to lose. Not that Jos had been aggressive at this point, but the underlying tension was already there. And so he won. This year. And the next. And the year after that. But the training never got lighter.
If anything, the carting grew harder as his wings grew. It became more difficult to shove them down the back of his race suit, as all the other avian drivers did - as his mother had done with her small canary wings when she was carting. But whenever he mentioned this to Jos - in a quiet voice whilst making sure to wear his racing helmet - the man just scoffed and threw a roll of bandages at him
"Tie them up and out the way," he rolled his eyes as if Max was creating excuses to stop him from racing.
And so Max just found out how to bind his wings, through lots of trial and error. But it wasn't just the pain from the badly bound wings he had to deal with.
During the freezing winter, he was out on the tracks, fingers freezing off. It was so cold he would be shaking for the next few days, even after leaving the track. However, it was hardly better than summer. There Jos kept him in the car as temperatures rose high enough for no one else to even consider being out. Max passed out several times, once mid-drive. After Jos had dragged his body out of the shattered cart, the first thing he did was shout.
“Domme jongen!” [Stupid Boy], he screeched, “Dat wordt een hele dure reparatie!” [That's going to be a very expensive repair!].
There wasn’t ever a ‘How are you doing’, or an ‘are you alright?’. It was just about the cost of the repairs to the cart. And that wasn’t anything new. Max’s life always seemed to be second to his position on the track. And when he didn’t win…
Jos had been so angry when he lost a competition. He should’ve won it (of course he should’ve, he was the best there) but through a series of unfortunate coincidences, he happened to come in second. Which wasn’t good enough apparently.
Max was just finishing climbing out of the cart when he felt someone grab his neck. It was Jos. He’s been grabbed by the neck enough to know the handprint by now. He was dragged away from the cart and across the parking lot. Around them, everyone averted their eyes. This had happened long enough that people stopped interfering - nothing had happened whenever someone tried to help so they eventually stopped trying. But Jos was just annoyed those times, now he was angry.
The car was opened and Max hurried into the back.
The crash messed up my race! He hurriedly tried to explain, wings pinned as tight to his back as he could pull them, I couldn’t do anything!
Jos said nothing. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Honest Father! I couldn’t do anything!
Jos still said nothing.
Eventually, Max got the idea and shrunk back into the seat. But the car wasn’t heading home. He noticed that when the car pulled into a garage. Soon the door he was leaning on was flung open. He toppled out, almost hitting his head on the concrete. It was so cold. He started shivering immediately - a racing suit has no protection from the elements outside of the car.
Bruise immediately covering his blue skin, Max could only watch in horror as the car sped away, leaving him stranded at the garage. The cold wind whipped past and he hurried towards the garage building. It was shut. Shivering, he pushed into the pile of tyres chucked by the side of the road, desperately praying his father would return. Eyes flickering shut, he fell into an uneasy sleep.
"Up boy". A harsh slap to his face woke him immediately. His father stood there, framed by the morning sun. "Get in the car now".
Father had come back for him! It was a few hours later… right maybe more than a few but still! Father had come back for him!
And the next time it happened, Father came back as well! It had been a whole day that time, but he still came back! Father must’ve picked this garage specifically because of how quiet it was - no one was going to run into Max and try to kidnap him. The garage was all but abandoned - one working pump and no lights or staff.
The third time, Father didn’t come back. It had been a few days, and although Max had been able to find some bottled water (it was slightly green but better than nothing), he hadn’t been able to find any food. It was freezing cold as well, and his hands had an almost permanent shiver. The thin race suit was getting more worn by the day. It was old to begin with, slightly too short in his arms and legs, but the harsh wind had almost worn it through, now more holes than suit. He didn’t even have his helmet this time.
At least he had his wings. Greatful for their large size, for the first time ever, as he was able to wrap them fully around himself - like a giant blanket. Still, it wasn't warm - just enough to ward of the everpresent chill. Tucked into a damp corner, he waited. What if Father wasn’t coming back? What if Max had really been so bad that Father didn’t want anything to do with him anymore? He had cheated on Mama with a new lady and she was already pregnant. They had done some kind of scan the other day, and it was a boy. Father was delighted. Was this Max’s replacement?
A car pulled into the garage. Max poked his head up, too exhausted to move faster. This car was a very nice-looking Land Rover. Father drove a beat-up Honda. It wasn’t Father. But the man in the car was moving towards Max. He moved slowly, telegraphing his movements. It was a good thing, as the man was very tall, and very well dressed, and had he moved fast Max would’ve tried to run. He wouldn’t have gone far, exhaustion and all that, but it was the thought that counted.
But the man had wings, and every instinct in Max was calling for him to let this man close, to let the man in, let the man look after him. Rather odd reaction to a complete stranger, but Max hadn't had much experience with other avians - for all he knew, this was a perfectly normal reaction. (It wasn't - Max was just already distantly part of the man's flock so his instincts were getting slightly confused).
“Hey, kid?” oh, the man was talking to him? What were the man's wings... what bird?
“Kid, do you speak English? German? French? Italian? Polish?” the man asked, circling through a few languages as he spoke their names, wings twitching nervously.
“English. I speak English,” Max was able to rasp out, voice horse from a long time of silence.
“Alright kid, English. Where are your parents?” the man asked. He seemed nice. Max hoped he was nice.
Max shrugged, “Mama left. Father left me here. Usually, he’s back by now. It's been a few days.”
That seemed to shock the man, his feathers flaring slightly, but Max couldn’t think why. He hadn’t been good enough, so he was left in the garage. That’s just what happened, wasn’t it? He wasn't perfect, he was abandoned.
“Do you know your Father’s phone number?” the man tried after a moment of silence.
That, Max knew. He quickly rattled off his father’s phone number. Father had left him lots of places, so Max was very good at telling people Father’s number. He often needed reminding to come and collect Max. Max was very good at reminding his father to collect him. He liked being useful.
The man called Father. It took a few calls to go though as Father didn’t seem to be particularly eager to pick up his phone. The man seemed to be getting quite annoyed. That was bad. The man was very tall so when he hit Max it would hurt a lot. The man wasn’t allowed to get more annoyed.
[Man] - Your son is at a garage and told me you left him here. Who is this?
[Jos] - Ach. The boy is far too disobedient. A few days of punishment will do him good.
[Man] - This is a child!
[Jos] - Yes. My child. Do not tell me how to parent.
[Man] - This is not parenting, this is abuse!
[Jos] - If you’re so interested in the boy, you look after him for the next week.
[Man] - You were planning to leave him there for another week?!
[Jos] - He is not good enough. He needs to learn.
[Man] - I will look after him for the week. Good riddance.
[Jos] - Good luck with the bastard child.
The man hung up the call and turned to Max. Max wasn’t sure what to think - he’d only heard the man’s side of the conversation, but he wasn't stupid. It was going to be another week. Father had his new son now, so there was no need for the old, useless one. It was like trading in a phone for the newest model - you don’t care what happens to the old one so long as the new one is nice and shiny.
But this man wanted him? Did he think Max was good enough? Was Max good enough? Oh! The man was talking to him.
“Hello there. I know this is going to seem very odd, but I’m going to be looking after you for a week.” The man said.
That was fine with Max. He had had several weeks away from his father, with nannies and Uncle Michael. He told the man as such.
“Alright… alright…” that seemed to make the man angry, his wings all but flared out - his wingspan was very impressive for a regular person, had he said something wrong?
“Well,” the man continued after a few deep breaths, “my name is Toto. What’s your name?”
“I’m Max!” Max cheered. He’d heard Christian talk about Toto (and it wasn’t a very common name!) when his father invited the man around. Christian didn’t like Jos, and he always made sure to sneak Max some food money when Jos’s back was turned. Jos had always been talking about ‘the future’ with Christian, whatever that meant. Christian was nice - he let Max sit in his nests sometimes! The man had very pretty Blue Jay wings
“Do you know Christian?” Max couldn’t help but ask, the hope present despite what life had thrown at him.
Toto looked very surprised, “I do,” he spoke carefully, “he’s my… best friend. We live together.”
“Did he tell you about me?” Max asked. Perhaps this was why Toto thought Max was good enough. Chrisitan certainly thought so, if the smiles and sweets he gave Max every time Jos dragged the pair to the same track, were any indication. Christian even said he was a good fledgling!
That seemed to confuse Toto though, as he just looked over the boy for a while, eyes just noticing the worn race suit. “Max Verstappen?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking to the colossal wings dwarfing the small boy with noticeable confusion. After all, Max Verstappen was very publically known to be a wingless avian.
“You do know me!” Max cheered, relaxing further. If Christian trusted the man, then Max would trust him. Perhaps they were flock?
“Well, would you like to stay with Christian and me?” Toto offered quietly, crouching down and shuffling closer, not wanting to spook the boy.
It should have been a point for concern how quickly Max agreed to go with someone who was, in every way important, a stranger, but Toto was so relieved to get the boy somewhere safe that he brushed over the worry. He leaned over and picked up the boy, scooping him into his arms, careful to avoid jostling his wings, and headed back to the car.
It was very warm. Max relaxed into the plush leather seats in the back, going practically boneless whilst Toto belted him in place. He looked so small, curled up in the back seat. No, Toto quickly corrected himself, the boy was far too small for his age. And the state of those wings... were they always a dirty grey? Were they supposed to be bright white?
“I’m going to start driving home now Max, it will be half an hour or so?” Toto told the boy, who hummed in reply, too asleep to properly think. His face rested against the window, asleep in a safe place for the first time in days.
A few moments later, when the car was in a calm, quiet state, Toto carefully unlocked his phone, calling someone on speaker.
[Toto] - Hey Chris?
[Christian] - Hello my Condor! Are you on your way back now? Was there a lot of traffic?
[Toto] - Not really. What do you know about Max Verstappen?
[Christian] - The sweet Dutch kid? His father keeps inviting me to his carting races, I’ll probably ask him to drive for Red Bull in the future. Why’d you ask?
[Toto] - What do you think of his father?
[Christian] - …
[Christian] - What’s the bastard done now?
[Toto] - Nice to know you hate the git too. He left the kid at a gas station. Alone. In the cold. And was planning to leave him there for another week! The kid almost has hypothermia, Chris!
[Christian] - The fuck? Please tell me you have the kid now Toto. You’re on the sofa for the next month if you don’t.
[Toto] - Of course I have the kid! He’s so light Chris, I carried him into the car and it was like I wasn’t lifting anything!
[Christopher] - Poor thing. Is he asleep?
[Toto] - Yeah, fell asleep the minute I picked him up.
[Christian] - Aww. I’ll heat up some watered-down soup or something. Get a warm meal into the kid.
[Toto] - Thank you. Be home soon. You might want to make a nest for him?
[Christian] - Will do. Drive safe.
The week with Christian and Toto passed quickly, but it was one of the best weeks in Max’s short life. He had a warm nest every night, and three meals a day, and he was allowed to sleep as long as he wanted! And they were both so lovely to him, with quiet voices and kind hands. They even preened his wings for him, calling the feathers beautiful and even keeping the ones that moulted out, as if they were some important collectable. He even got to choose a feather to hang on the wall, besides one of Christian's Blue Jay feathers, and what Max later learned was one of Toto's Andean Condor feathers.
But then Jos was back. And it was back to the everpresent pang of hunger and the cold that bit his fingers daily. And the soreness of his ribs when the bindings were pulled too tight.
The trophies started to come in, but it was never enough to satisfy Jos his father. Every time he met the bar, it was just pushed even higher. With the impossible height, so far out of his reach, it was all but impossible for Max to succeed now. But he kept trying. He knew nothing else.
As the other kids were playing football after races, Max was back in the cart, being forced to drill everything he’d got wrong. As the other kids were being praised for second place, Max was being yelled at for not having enough of a lead in first place. His carting overwhelmed his life, a constant cycle of training, racing and being berated for his failings. There was only one light spot.
A boy was stubborn enough to break through his rock-solid walls.
He kept going up to Max (thankfully when Jos wasn’t there - it seemed the boy did have some intelligence) and asking him to join in the games. Max refused every time, but the boy kept coming back.
He was always the first to congratulate Max every time he was on the podium (Jos didn’t - he didn’t offer any congratulations even after Max won by ten seconds in a near-perfect race).
He was there when Max failed as well, choosing to comfort the Dutch boy above celebrating his own victory. The hand of friendship was always extended. And one day, a day with nothing particularly special about it, Max accepted it.
“Do you still want to play football?” Max asked quietly, one dreary day.
And the smile that overcame the other boy’s face was brighter than any sunny day could’ve been.
“Yes!” Charles Leclerc beamed, running off to grab the football, red parrot wings fluttering behind him.
And so they played football - out of sight of any angry parents - behind a garage in the grey morning. It formed a tradition. Every time there was a quiet moment, any time they could both escape their parents, they snuck off to play football.
At the start, it was just football. But then they began to talk.
Initially, it was race complaints. Talking about racing lines, and where to break for the best corners. About how school work was going, about what they had for dinner last night. But then the conversations changed. They stopped playing football, instead just sitting behind the garages, talking.
Charles murmured about never living up to his father’s ambition for him. Max spoke about his growing hatred for carting.
They grew comfortable with each other too, with more and more physical contact by the day. By the ime a few months had passed, Max ended up going straight the curl up in Charles’s lap after a difficult race - a far cry from the two-metre distance they’d had when they first started talking. Max even let his wings out around Charles. Thankfully, the boy made no comments about the unusual size or crystal-like feathers, merely preening the loose feathers out, and offering his red wings up for reciprocation. Max snuck one of the tiny red feathers down his sleeve, carefully hiding it in his bedroom at home.
It was nice. Not the carting, or the family life. But he got on well with Charles.
It was like he had a friend.
His first friend.